STORY TIME
Or The Tale as I know it so far
The deep bravado of his voice resonates through the tiny cabin although it comes out no more than a mere whisper, and although I understand him I cant really remember at this moment if I speak the language or not, or if in my current state, I am just not willing to try and form a response. So instead I merely gesture with the drink in my hand to bag on the overhead shelf across from me, with my itinerary plainly sticking out of the side compartment. This primal exchange seems to suit every party just fine, as in a moment, the conductor has punched my ticket and is gone.
KLACK KLACK
That sound is slowly hammering an ice pick right in to the center of my cerebellum, and the swaying reverberations that accompany each jolt are not helping either.
KLACK KLACK
Each time a millimeter further.
KLACK KLACK
I drained the rest of my beverage in hopes that it might fortify my swollen skull against the barrage, biting down against the acidic stinging aftertaste. Closing my eyes the apparition of the conductor appears again. Something about his appearance bothers me. In my mind I reform every detail of his persona, the mirror polished shoes, the dangling silver watch chain, enshrined with jewels and runes, the ace of spades delicately stitched into each of his neatly folded and pressed cuffs so that only the corner of the card would ever show. And over and over again I kept focusing on the noose, tightly wrapped thirteen times. Of course, the noose
I leapt up from my bench and fished around in my rapidly stuffed, chaotic bag, through ruffles of clothes and the occasional hard indiscernible object, till I found it. Sitting back down on the bench, I examined my own noose. Made from a midnight dark blue silk, it had a tight braid that made it very thin yet strong rope. The whole rope had then been dyed several times with slightly black India inks of various densities until the overall effect was a deeply marbled dark hue. It had been an expensive birthday present many years ago from Milo. Or maybe it was from Clem.
I pulled off my own western style tie and let it drop to the table beside the empty glass, and with a deep exhale slid the noose down over my head, and fitted it under my collar. On The Isle, like everywhere else, certain nuances of fashion, often served as calling cards to a particular social order, but the noose was a ubiquitous staple that almost every male abided by. There were hundreds of variations on the noose, again each variation unique to certain circles. Traditionally the noose was to be a functional knot, but most of the mass produced types and cheap knock offs that were sold to tourists on the sidewalks of the Grand Bizarre were not; some were made from traditional hemp ropes or silks while the Sophisto-Cats of The Isle often chose polysynthetic materials and genetically grown materials, but these often came at a price. Combining the material from which it was made and its length and to how it was actually tied literally gave rise to hundreds of variations that a well-trained social eye could discern.
I leaned back on the bench seat, some how feeling better, maybe it was the minute change in attire, or maybe the chemical inebriation had finally won the battle with my ravaged and high strung nervous system. But no matter what the cause, I would actually almost venture far enough to say that I was actually beginning to feel up to snuff with the world around me.
Klack Klack
Even the jolting noise of the track and reverberations of motion seemed distant and almost soothing now.
I was about to put my old tie back into my bag when another odd notion overcame me and instead I slid down the upper half of the small window of the compartment and leaning out, let my tie drift out in the motion of the wind. The dark was less oppressive now and although the overhead sky was still overcast and quite dense, a small far away gibbous moon managed to sneak through a few cracks. The landscape of dense swamp had given way to and endless turbulent dark sea.
Another cocktail?
Or The Tale as I know it so far
The deep bravado of his voice resonates through the tiny cabin although it comes out no more than a mere whisper, and although I understand him I cant really remember at this moment if I speak the language or not, or if in my current state, I am just not willing to try and form a response. So instead I merely gesture with the drink in my hand to bag on the overhead shelf across from me, with my itinerary plainly sticking out of the side compartment. This primal exchange seems to suit every party just fine, as in a moment, the conductor has punched my ticket and is gone.
KLACK KLACK
That sound is slowly hammering an ice pick right in to the center of my cerebellum, and the swaying reverberations that accompany each jolt are not helping either.
KLACK KLACK
Each time a millimeter further.
KLACK KLACK
I drained the rest of my beverage in hopes that it might fortify my swollen skull against the barrage, biting down against the acidic stinging aftertaste. Closing my eyes the apparition of the conductor appears again. Something about his appearance bothers me. In my mind I reform every detail of his persona, the mirror polished shoes, the dangling silver watch chain, enshrined with jewels and runes, the ace of spades delicately stitched into each of his neatly folded and pressed cuffs so that only the corner of the card would ever show. And over and over again I kept focusing on the noose, tightly wrapped thirteen times. Of course, the noose
I leapt up from my bench and fished around in my rapidly stuffed, chaotic bag, through ruffles of clothes and the occasional hard indiscernible object, till I found it. Sitting back down on the bench, I examined my own noose. Made from a midnight dark blue silk, it had a tight braid that made it very thin yet strong rope. The whole rope had then been dyed several times with slightly black India inks of various densities until the overall effect was a deeply marbled dark hue. It had been an expensive birthday present many years ago from Milo. Or maybe it was from Clem.
I pulled off my own western style tie and let it drop to the table beside the empty glass, and with a deep exhale slid the noose down over my head, and fitted it under my collar. On The Isle, like everywhere else, certain nuances of fashion, often served as calling cards to a particular social order, but the noose was a ubiquitous staple that almost every male abided by. There were hundreds of variations on the noose, again each variation unique to certain circles. Traditionally the noose was to be a functional knot, but most of the mass produced types and cheap knock offs that were sold to tourists on the sidewalks of the Grand Bizarre were not; some were made from traditional hemp ropes or silks while the Sophisto-Cats of The Isle often chose polysynthetic materials and genetically grown materials, but these often came at a price. Combining the material from which it was made and its length and to how it was actually tied literally gave rise to hundreds of variations that a well-trained social eye could discern.
I leaned back on the bench seat, some how feeling better, maybe it was the minute change in attire, or maybe the chemical inebriation had finally won the battle with my ravaged and high strung nervous system. But no matter what the cause, I would actually almost venture far enough to say that I was actually beginning to feel up to snuff with the world around me.
Klack Klack
Even the jolting noise of the track and reverberations of motion seemed distant and almost soothing now.
I was about to put my old tie back into my bag when another odd notion overcame me and instead I slid down the upper half of the small window of the compartment and leaning out, let my tie drift out in the motion of the wind. The dark was less oppressive now and although the overhead sky was still overcast and quite dense, a small far away gibbous moon managed to sneak through a few cracks. The landscape of dense swamp had given way to and endless turbulent dark sea.
Another cocktail?